Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘You’re in your final year, right?’ I changed the subject.

You nodded. ‘I’m doing—’

I held up my hand. ‘Don’t tell me, let me guess.’

You laughed, enjoying the game, and I took my time pretending to think about it, letting my eyes run over your striped Lycra dress; the scarf tied around your hair. You were heavier back then, and the swell of your breasts stretched the fabric taut across your chest. I could see the outline of your nipples and I wondered if they would be pale or dark.

‘You’re doing art,’ I said finally.

‘Yes!’ You looked amazed. ‘How did you know?’

‘You look like an artist,’ I said, as if it were obvious.

You didn’t say anything, but two spots of colour appeared high on your cheekbones, and you couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your face.

‘Ian Petersen.’ I held out my hand to shake yours, feeling the coolness of your skin against my fingers, and keeping it there for a fraction longer than necessary.

‘Jenna Gray.’

‘Jenna,’ I repeated. ‘That’s an unusual name. Is it short for something?’

‘Jennifer. But I’ve never been called anything other than Jenna.’ You gave a careless laugh. The last trace of your tears had disappeared, and with it the vulnerability I had found so compelling.

‘I couldn’t help but notice you were a little upset.’ I indicated the letter, stuffed into your open bag. ‘Have you had bad news?’

Your face darkened immediately. ‘It’s from my father.’

I said nothing, just tilted my head slightly to one side, and waited. Women rarely need an invitation to talk about their problems, and you were no exception.

‘He left when I was fifteen, and I haven’t seen him since. Last month I tracked him down and wrote to him, but he doesn’t want to know. Says he has a new family and we should “leave the past in the past”.’ You sketched quote marks in the air and affected a sarcastic air that didn’t hide your bitterness.

‘That’s terrible,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine anyone not wanting to see you.’

You softened instantly, and blushed. ‘His loss,’ you said, although your eyes were glistening again and you looked down at the table.

I leaned forward. ‘Can I get you a coffee?’

‘That would be lovely.’

When I got back to the table you had been joined by a group of friends. I recognised two of the girls, but there was a third with them, and a boy with pierced ears and long hair. They had taken all the chairs, and I had to fetch one from another table in order to sit down myself. I handed you your cup, and waited for you to explain to the others that we were mid-conversation, but you just thanked me for the coffee and introduced your friends, whose names I instantly forgot.

One of your friends asked me a question, but I couldn’t take my eyes off you. You were talking earnestly with the long-haired boy about some end-of-year assignment. Your hair fell across your face and you tucked it impatiently behind your ear. You must have felt my gaze on you because you turned your head. Your smile was apologetic and I at once forgave you for the discourtesy of your friends.

My coffee grew cold. I didn’t want to be the first to leave, and have them all talk about me, but there were only a few minutes before my lecture. I stood up and waited until you noticed me.

‘Thanks for the coffee.’

I wanted to ask if we could see each other again, but how could I with all your friends around you?

‘Next week, perhaps?’ I said, as though it really didn’t matter to me in the slightest. But you had turned back to your friends, and I left with the sound of your laugh ringing in my ears.

That laugh stopped me returning the following week, and when we met again a fortnight later the relief on your face showed me I had done the right thing by staying away. I didn’t ask to join you that time, just carried across two coffees; yours black with one sugar.

‘You remembered how I like my coffee!’

I shrugged, as if it were nothing, although I had noted it in my diary against the day we met, as I always do.

That time I took care to ask you more about yourself, and I watched you unfurl like a leaf seeking moisture. You showed me your drawings, and I flicked through pages of competent but unoriginal artwork and told you they were exceptional. When your friends arrived I was about to stand and fetch more chairs, but you told them you were busy; said you would join them later. At that moment, any concern I had about you disappeared, and I held your gaze until you broke off, flushed and smiling.

‘I won’t see you next week,’ I said. ‘Today is my last lecture.’

I was touched to see disappointment cross your face.

You opened your mouth to speak, but stopped yourself, and I waited, enjoying the anticipation. I could have asked you myself, but I preferred to hear it from you.

‘Perhaps we could have a drink sometime?’ you said.

I took my time answering, as though the thought had not occurred to me. ‘How about dinner?’ There’s a new French restaurant open in town – perhaps we could try it out this weekend?’

Your undisguised delight was endearing. I thought of Marie, and how she was so coldly indifferent to everything; so unfazed by surprises and bored by life. I had not previously thought it down to age, but when I saw your childish pleasure at the thought of dinner in a smart restaurant, I knew I had been right to look for someone younger. Someone less worldly-wise. I did not think you a complete innocent, of course, but you had at least not yet become cynical and untrusting.

I picked you up from your halls of residence, ignoring the interested glances from students walking past your door, and I was pleased to see you come out in an elegant black dress, your long legs encased in thick black tights. When I opened the car door for you, you gave a start of surprise.

‘I could get used to this.’

‘You look lovely, Jennifer,’ I said, and you laughed.

‘No one ever calls me Jennifer.’

‘Do you mind?’

‘No, I suppose not. It just sounds funny.’

The restaurant didn’t merit the early rave reviews I had read, but you didn’t seem to mind. You ordered sautéed potatoes with your chicken and I commented on your choice. ‘It’s rare to find a woman who doesn’t care about putting on weight.’ I smiled, to show you I was making light of it.

‘I don’t diet,’ you said. ‘Life’s too short.’ But although you ate the creamy sauce on your chicken, you left your potatoes. When the waiter offered the dessert menus I waved them away.

‘Just coffee, please.’ I saw your disappointment but you did not need fat-laden puddings. ‘What will you do when you graduate?’ I asked.

You sighed. ‘I don’t know. Some day I’d like to open a gallery, but for now I just need to find a job.’

‘As an artist?’

‘If only it were that easy! I’m a sculptor, mostly, and I’ll try to sell what I make, but it’ll mean getting any old job – bar work, perhaps, or stacking shelves – to pay the bills. I’ll probably end up moving back with Mum.’

‘Do you get on with her?’

You wrinkled your nose the way a child does. ‘Not really. She’s very close to my sister, but we’ve never really seen eye to eye. It was her fault my dad left without saying goodbye.’

I poured us both another glass of wine. ‘What did she do?’

‘She threw him out. She told me she was sorry, but that she had a life to live too, and she couldn’t live this one any longer. Then she refused to talk about it. I think it’s the most selfish thing I’ve ever come across.’

I could see the hurt in your eyes and I reached over to rest my hand on yours.